FRANKLIN VINCENT entered the front door of the Cruz Bay police station. He had just returned from Cinnamon Bay Plantation with the intention of studying the large leather volume and the photograph he had procured from Mrs. Foote. As soon as he entered the building, the desk sergeant said to him, “Mr. Osborne up on Gallows Point called this morning. He says somebody stole his spinnaker last night—from right off his boat. He's hoppin' mad about it and wants us to get it back immediately.”
“Naturally Osborne would expect it back right away,” Vincent said testily. “Did you tell him it would help if he didn't leave expensive things on the deck of his yacht? At any rate you'll have to put Phil on it because I'm still working on the Cinnamon homicides.” There was a sense in which Vincent would have happily taken the assignment to track down the missing sail. Such mundane crimes were his bread and butter. But in spite of himself he was intrigued by the hotel murders, murders which, if he could solve them, would give him more fame than Aberfield in St. Thomas had ever attained.
The inspector circled the front counter and walked into the small back room that served as his office. With his free hand he clicked on the light and settled himself